


Housekeeping

by carolyn_claire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Bit Not Good, Dark Humor, Gen, I find it funny anyway, darkish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:08:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29443863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolyn_claire/pseuds/carolyn_claire
Summary: Mrs. Hudson cleans up.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8





	Housekeeping

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the Case of the Underground prompt on the sherlock_flashfic Dreamwidth comm in March of 2011, between seasons one and two of Sherlock. At the time we knew very little about Mrs. Hudson (I called her Emma, not knowing yet that they would go with Martha on the show), and I had a blast imagining her this way. When the series later went almost entirely in this direction with her, I liked to imagine that someone had showed this story to Una Stubbs and she had insisted on this characterization, but really, the temptation to do this with her character is too much fun for anyone to resist and completely logical in a story populated almost entirely by sociopaths. She only looks fluffy; cross her at your own risk. 
> 
> Betas for this story were Mazarin221b, Legionseagle, Yonmei, Resonant, and Pouncer

***

All set, then, Emma Hudson decided, and she settled back into the settee, remote in one hand and steaming teacup in the other. Her biscuits--only two, just as her doctor had advised, though he was as big as a house, himself, making her wonder, sometimes, how valuable his advice could be--awaited her on the saucer, and her toes flexed comfortably in her slippers. Everything she needed to be cozy; now it was show time. 

She turned on the set and clicked to her channel as she took a sip of tea. Nearly perfect timing; only a couple of commercials before her movie. Bloody ads--they always seemed to be trying so hard to be funny, these days, and hardly ever were, and then one could never remember what they'd been advertising in the first place. She could just buy more DVDs, she supposed. There was something about sitting down to watch a programme as it aired that felt a little more special, though, a little more like an event. There were certainly few enough of those in her life, these days, to want to give any up. 

A rap at the door made her frown over at the clock--really, it almost never failed, and here's where the ability to pause the movie really would come in handy. She'd be tempted to let the boys get it, if they were at home--John would go, always so considerate--but she was alone in the house, tonight. Basil Rathbone would have to wait for a few minutes. 

A quick tug at the bottom of her cardigan and a touch to the back of her hair, a glance at the state of the entryway (it was a wonder how much dirt boys could track in, why she even bothered with sweeping), and she was at the door. She peered out through the peephole as she reached for the doorknob, then hesitated and pulled back, frowning, before looking again. This was unfortunate. No way to know for sure before speaking to him, of course, but there was a good chance that this was going to seriously intrude on her quiet time. 

One lacquered nail tapped lightly at her lip as she considered. She didn't have to answer the door, granted, but, well. Sherlock had always been such a help to her, in his own way, and her never able to offer him anything comparable in return, though she had been fairly generous with the discount on the rent. And John, bless him, always such a dear, and he'd been through so much, poor man. And it was usually best to deal with these things in as straightforward a manner as possible, though that hadn't always worked out so well for her Edmund, she considered, and chuckled. She usually found directness to be the best course for herself, however; a stitch in time, as they say. 

The knocker sounded again; time to stop dithering. She reached down into the umbrella stand, then straightened, composed her face and opened the door.

***

It was nearly dark out, now, twilight seeping out of the narrow spaces between buildings and up from the stairwells of basement flats to shroud the waning day. The man on the step flicked a quick look over his shoulder at the van idling at the curb, a few doors down the street, and suppressed a smile. Fun as this was, he didn't want to spoil it by appearing too eager. The click of the lock disengaging sharpened his focus. Show time. 

The knit-wrapped, fluffy-haired old soul who peered through the gap was almost too perfect to be real, a faded beauty with gentle, inquisitive eyes. Such a sin to contemplate laying violent hands on the dear thing; such delicious anticipation of the act. And what depths of self-recrimination for Sherlock, once he returned from his ridiculous wild-goose chase to find his surrogate mum spirited away and his note waiting in her place. 

"Yes? May I help you?" His target blinked benign inquiry at him. 

"I was hoping to see Sherlock, if he's in? You're Mrs. Hudson, aren't you?" He extended his hand as he grinned at her. "He's spoken of you often." 

She frowned at him, not looking at his hand or offering her own. "Has he? And you are...?"

"James Morton. Sherlock and I were at prep school together." He pulled his hand back, annoyed. Not a terribly friendly old bat, then; lacked manners. He'd enjoy teaching her some. "I'm not often in town, and I'd hoped we might do some catching up."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "No, I'm sorry, as I said, he isn't here. He may be quite some time." 

That was true, and he couldn't be more pleased about it. "Always my luck. Still, I'm going to be in town tomorrow, as well--if I could leave a note?" 

She looked uncertain, for a moment, her thin lips pursed in thought, then seemed to relent. "I suppose that would be all right. I'm sure he'll be very sorry to have missed you." No doubt he would be, especially once he got the note. 

She drew the door with her as she stepped back into the entry, inclining her head toward the shadowy hallway behind her as she moved away from him. "If you'll just step inside, I'll find a bit of paper for you, Mr. Morton."

"James, please, and thanks so much." He smiled, again, and reached into his jacket pocket as he brushed past her. It really was too easy, and rather beneath him, if it weren't guaranteed to drive Sherlock mad, knowing that he'd had been right there in Sherlock's home, touching his things. 

As he turned toward her, he caught a blur of motion from the corner of his eye, felt a bright arc of pain in his left temple, and then nothing. 

***

She'd never been more glad to have taken that walk-fit course than she was just now, and not only because a dumbbell made an excellent cosh. She knew she must look a sight, disheveled and perspiring, and her slippers were filthy, but that hardly mattered. The only one who would see her wouldn't be able to comment, and would certainly have a great deal more than her appearance to complain about, if he could. 

He was blinking, now, raising his head slowly--concussed, most likely. The temple was so fragile, very important to protect if one were to fall. Her sister was always warning her about falling, as though passing 60 meant suddenly losing the ability to stay on one's feet. She had been a dancer, for heaven's sake.

"Best not to move your head around too much, just yet." 

He looked her way, focusing on her voice with an attempt at a glare that was more comical than it was intimidating, especially with the swaths of tape wrapped over his mouth and around his head. He still looked a bit woozy, as if he'd had a pint too many. Her Edmund had looked just like that, many a time, and it often gave her a giggle. Not where he could hear, though, not if he could still see straight enough to smack her one. 

She perched on the edge her chair and smoothed her skirt. Really, all of this hauling things about--she'd gotten enough exercise to last her several days, at least. He'd been the worst to move, floppy and awkward as she'd pulled him down the stairs, like Christopher Robin dragging Edward Bear behind him, bump, bump, bump. That couldn't have helped his head any, she imagined. 

"I had such a time getting you down here." She laid one hand against her chest, feeling her heart pound. "I'm still a little breathless, you'll have to excuse me for a moment." 

He really did have a very odd stare, sort of lizard-like, with too much white showing around his eyes--always a sign of a bad sort, in her experience. Not that he'd ever be a really attractive man; he had an unsavory sort of unhinged look about him, the kind that frightened clever girls away. She hadn't been a very clever girl when she'd met her Edmund, she'd long since admitted to herself. With experience came wisdom, however. 

"I know who you are, of course, though I very much doubt that Jim Moriarty is actually your name. It's probably something horrid, like Eustace, isn't it? Like Eustace Stolzer--I knew him when, oh, I must have been six or seven. The poor boy. I haven't thought of him in ages." 

She stopped for a moment and considered poor Eustace, until a low, growling sound from probably-not-Jim drew her attention back to what she was doing. The sooner she finished, here, the sooner she could go back upstairs. The film was a dead loss, by now, but a hot bath would be heavenly, what with the way her hip was aching. 

"Anyway, I do know all about you--Sherlock is so talkative when he's on a case, and I probably hear more than he or John are aware of. Which could be embarrassing, I'll admit, but they're never lewd, fortunately." He rolled his eyes at her; she ignored it. As if she cared what he thought of her, the unpleasant thing. "Of course, I didn't know for sure until I heard you speak--an Irish accent is always so distinctive. I had a girlfriend, once, who was an au pair--" He made another of those ugly sounds, and she frowned. 

"Yes, well. The thing is," she held up the folded square of paper she'd found in his pocket, " _this_ is really inexcusable, and I don't just mean the silly taunts or your inappropriate use of endearments. Sherlock is most certainly not your "darling", nor would he ever choose to be." If he was anyone's darling, she liked to think that he was hers, though she rather suspected he might be John's, too, which was lovely. "He would have found it so terribly hurtful, which I suppose was the point, and certainly not much fun for me, either.

"So." She took a deep breath, gathering herself, "I need to decide how best to deal with you. I've no doubt that if I called Sherlock's Inspector friend he'd come right over and take you off my hands. I'm not sure, though, if that would necessarily be the best thing."

As she bent to place the note on the floor, her movements drew his eyes down to the collection of items gathered at her feet--a roll of gaffer tape, a few leftover cable ties (so handy for training climbing roses), his phone from his trouser pocket and the hypodermic from his jacket. His eyes widened, then narrowed as they rose to her face, again. 

She paused for a moment, watching him watch her. He was listening, but he was thinking, too. She was very glad that he was securely fastened to that chair. 

"I don't doubt that you'd be next to impossible to hold on to, physically or legally, with all the resources you have to hand. And the last thing that Sherlock or John or I or anyone else needs is to have you running about, doing the things that you do. I'm not sure that I shouldn't...deal with you, myself. Properly." His eyebrows shot up, and then he winced--that had most likely been painful, and it served him right. The untended gash at his temple still oozed a little; she wasn't about to touch his nasty blood in order to patch him up. There was no telling where he'd been.

"I'll need to give it some thought, of course, so I'm going to leave you alone down here, for the time being." He had the nerve to look sly at that--stupid man. "You won't be getting out of that chair or leaving this room, don't think you will. I do know a bit about tying people up." The less said about that, the better; she cleared her throat and hurried on. "And I have this, of course." 

She reached down for the hypodermic and held it up in front of his face. His eyes went big as saucers, and he pulled back into his chair as she uncapped the needle and freed the plunger. "Not a pleasant sort of drug, I imagine? I'm also guessing that you didn't intend to kill me outright with it, but I'm not going to untape your mouth to find out. Not that you'd tell me the truth, in any case." 

He tried to lean away from her as she moved toward him with the needle, but there wasn't enough give in the tape that bound his shoulders to the chair for him to do more than wriggle a bit. She'd never actually given anyone a shot, before, but it couldn't be all that hard, and she'd watched any number of medical dramas. The needle pierced the sleeve of his shirt easily, resisted his flesh a bit and then slid home. He flinched and whimpered, much like she could remember doing when she had been given a tetanus injection, as a child. Men were such babies. 

She recapped the needle and began to tidy up, watching him closely. The drug seemed to take effect fairly quickly; she'd given him all of it, and, if she'd overdosed him, there wasn't anything she could do about it, now. She did hope he didn't die until she'd made her mind up positively that he should; not only did she have a great deal to consider, but there were arrangements to be made. A long, hot soak and time to think were what she needed, right now, and there was no telling how soon the boys would be home from their false errand (so obvious, now). She hoped Sherlock had been as well able to deal with whatever he'd found as she had been, here. 

The man's--Jim's, she might as well call him Jim--head was drooping, again, his eyes crossing with the effort to stay awake as he clung to consciousness. He'd be out, soon, and she could leave him to it. She shifted the items she'd gathered up into one hand as she felt in her pocket for her keys, glanced at his phone and paused, smiling. 

"I sent your friend away, if you were wondering." He rolled his head to one side and slanted a decidedly drowsy look up at her. "He texted you about ten minutes after I let you inside, wanting to know if your plans had changed. I replied that you'd decided to wait for Sherlock to return. Which reminds me, I should text the boys about the suspicious character lurking about outside, this evening. Sherlock will know how to deal with him when he gets home, if he's still out there." 

Jim's chin dropped down onto his chest, and he groaned softly. 

"I know," Mrs. Hudson said, patting his unbloodied shoulder absently as she turned toward the stairs. "The muscle types are always so terribly dim."

She was so tired, almost as if she were the one doped to the gills. She could hear Jim starting to snore behind her, soft, snorting rumbles that diminished with distance, fading away entirely by the time she was halfway up the stairs. She clicked the padlock shut, one-handed, and headed for the bath. She'd eat her biscuits in the tub, she thought, and maybe more than two--she felt that, after all of this, she deserved them, doctor be hanged. 

***

Jim woke to a bony finger poking him in the shoulder, as though death itself had come to collect him from this filthy little room. He was definitely still there; the stench of rot and rodents that fouled the air had probably embedded itself permanently into his clothing and his hair and the lining of his nostrils, by now. He'd have to burn this suit. 

He took a slow, even breath in though his nose, noting with chagrin the growing unease in his gut, the queasiness that climbed the back of his throat. The damned sedative could do that, he knew--he'd seen it have that effect on plenty of other people. He tried to lick his lips, realized that the tape was still there and experienced a frisson of fear--this could be bad. Even if the old bitch didn't kill him outright--and that was ridiculous, look at her--he could still aspirate his own vomit and die, like this. What a ghastly thought.

"Are you awake, then?" She sounded too idiotically cheerful to be believed, and when he looked up at her, his eyes gummy and hot and his face as blank a mask as he could make it, she looked it, as well. He might be her guest for tea, from her demeanor--or breakfast, he supposed, noting the sunlight glowing around the edges of the ratty drapes. Maybe she'd brought him some breakfast, which he didn't want, at all, or some tea, which he really did, and she'd take the damned tape off of his mouth. 

"That's good." She sat down on the other chair and crossed her legs, folding her hands in her lap. "I didn't know if you would actually wake up, honestly, so it's something of a relief to see that you have. And that you slept all night, I assume?" She paused, as if he could or would tell her how he'd slept, like a guest at a fucking B&B. "A dose meant for me might not have been sufficient for a man, but, you are rather a small man, aren't you?" 

She tittered gratingly; he fought down a bubble of anger and nausea as she enjoyed her own joke. He was going to kill the cunt slowly and mail her to Sherlock in pieces, one by one. 

"Anyway," she resumed her obnoxious prattling, settling back in her chair, "I've had a good long think--hardly any sleep at all, really, I almost envy you yours--and I'm afraid I still haven't come to a decision." 

Surprise, surprise, the addled old bitch couldn't make up her mind. She probably risked a stroke choosing between tea or coffee in the morning. 

"The thing is," she lowered her voice and leaned toward him, "I don't really _want_ to be a killer. I find them rather reprehensible, in general, and some of them are really awful, individually. Do I want to be like them? _Would_ I be like them?" Her vapid face took on a far away look, for a moment, most likely reflecting on the sad assortment of fumbling amateurs that Sherlock regularly scraped off of his shoe and into his pet Inspector's grateful, incompetent hands. 

"Of course, there's a difference between murder and execution, I'm well aware. No one knows that better than I do, I promise you." She seemed to find that funny, too, which was bizarre and a little puzzling, and then he remembered the husband. 

She was the widow of a small-time crime boss, an executed multiple murderer. Something of a biggish noise, in his way--nothing important, of course, though rather a larger rat than the little rats around him, at the time. This could be a problem.

He did a swift reassessment of his situation. That he'd been trapped in this ignominious way was his own fault, due to a regrettable lapse in attention coupled with an inexcusable disregard for data he'd certainly had available to him. Really, though, who would have thought that the doddering old bint had it in her? Bashing him in the head with no way to know positively that he wasn't who he said he was, her calm, deft handling of him, since then, her apparent fearlessness--what else might she be capable of? 

The bile began to rise in his throat, again. It was time to be very careful, in whatever limited way was available to him.

"In films, you know, they always talk about not wanting to become as bad as the villain, but I don't think that one does, really." She eyed him as though he might offer an opinion. "The hero so often does kill the villain, in the end, after a lot of moaning and faffing about. It's a reluctance to deal with things straight-on, you see, that inhibits them. And other people always suffer for it, in the end, when that all could have been avoided with a little decisiveness and grit. Now, there was an excellent film," she said, looking vague, again.

Dear god, his fate might be decided by John Wayne. Unless she meant the remake, and, bloody hell, she had him doing it, now. 

"In the end, it really is about what's best for the most people, I think, like Mr. Spock said--something like that. Or assassination, I suppose. I never really understood why that should be more of a problem than allowing someone to start a war. Though people were forever trying to kill Hitler." She sighed. "It's all very confusing, really, for one person to have to deal with. That's what juries are for, of course, though they're not infallible. They're people, too, after all, and you know what they say about committees. And then, the system being what it is. Thank goodness for men like Sherlock." She frowned. "I wouldn't want him to find out, of course. I don't _think_ he'd mind it, but I'd hate to distress him. Not that he's infallible, either, but, well. Best that he keep thinking that he is." She smirked; his heart began to pound.

"I suppose, though, that one might say that killing a man who's tied up is hardly fair, but I doubt very much that fairness ever entered into it when _you've_ killed anyone." She frowned disapprovingly at him. "I see it more in terms of a handicap, anyway, like they do with horses, or golf, to make it more equitable. We did some golf, in Florida, before the trouble happened." He could feel himself sweating, dampness leaching into his shirt and standing on the skin of his neck as the humidity of the basement prevented evaporation. His thirst was monumental, now, too. "So I don't think I need consider fairness, because you didn't, of course, when you were going to take me away." 

If he rocked forward in his chair, there was a possibility that he might be able to pitch into her, but he doubted that he'd be able to do her any real damage, and he might precipitate her into some sort of action. He doubted, at this point, that anything he could do would frighten her into releasing him, though if she attempted anything he would certainly try. 

"And then there's method to consider," she said, watching him closely. "I could have someone else do it, of course--there are still a few of Edmund's friends available who would, but one doesn't like to be beholden, especially, well." She raised a knowing eyebrow at him. "Anyway, no doubt I'd need their help with...things, afterwards, and that's about as far as I'd want to stretch a friendship. And I suppose it would be as easy as pinching your nose shut, wouldn't it?" 

He stared at her, his gorge rising, and realized there was a real danger was going to be sick. He held his breath and swallowed desperately as his eyes watered and the back of his nose stung. She was still watching him carefully, something in her expression reminding him a little of Sherlock, oddly.

Fear exploded in his chest as he choked. He closed his eyes and tried to channel his thoughts, regain control. He would not think about the soft, tidy, elderly little woman sitting across from him who seemed to be very seriously considering suffocating him with her bare hands and having his body disposed of by her dead husband's racketeer friends, all without turning a hair.

If anyone was going to come for him, they surely would have by now. He bitterly regretted that he hadn't shared this plan with Moran, but it had seemed so simple and inconsequential at the time. There was no one else who did know where he'd gone, or that he had gone, who had the initiative to look for him. Leaving Sebastian out of the loop had been his first mistake, followed by underestimating the insane old horror who was threatening his life, now. Please god don't let not being able to control his gag reflex be his third. 

"Oh, I imagine that's unpleasant." He opened his streaming eyes to see something very like sympathy on his would-be executioners face. Could he move her to pity? He certainly wouldn't have to feign desperation. 

Her lips parted as she leaned toward him, again, studying his undoubtedly pathetic face. "Goodness, you look very like my little Bitsy, just now, about the eyes. She would look just like that whenever I scolded her for wetting the carpet." She shook her head, then rose from her chair. "I could never get her to stop, so I had to have her put down. Such a shame." 

His stomach heaved, again. He was very close to openly weeping with frustration, now, but she turned away from him, rather than towards him, and headed for the stairs. A reprieve? Would he escape Bitsy's fate, after all? 

She stopped at the base of the stairs and turned back, considering him. "No, as much as I dislike delay, I do feel this needs more thought. It isn't as though I could change my mind, afterward, is it? And you're certainly not going anywhere." She nodded, again, and then climbed the stairs, her vein-webbed legs and her kitten heels disappearing last. 

She was absolutely right about that, as far as he could tell; he was thoroughly bound to this infernal chair, entirely immobile and helpless, thirsty and sick and barely able to think. And now he really needed to take a piss.

***

It was getting on to tea time, and she still hadn't made up her mind. This wasn't like her, and it was worrying--she'd always been so decisive, in the past, even when her choices hadn't always turned out to be the best ones. That was the thing, she supposed, the weight of all that experience worrying at her, teasing her with what-ifs. She had never had any difficulty with doing the right thing, before, however unpleasant. She supposed that, this time, the problem was in knowing what the right thing was. It didn't seem as obvious to her now as it once might have.

And Sherlock and John were home, again, further complicating things. They'd handled Jim's waiting accomplice by alerting the Inspector, who'd sent some of his people around to take the man away--sensible and direct, just like she wanted to be. She was tempted, again, to tell Sherlock about their visitor and let him handle that, too, but that was the easy way out, and she'd feel as if she were shirking her responsibility if she did. 

No, it was her affair to deal with, at least until she'd come to a decision. It was unfortunate that she had to hide the situation from Sherlock, especially when he was questioning her about that lurking person--not at all easy, misleading him, but doable, of course. It wasn't the first time she'd had to conceal things from him, though she never enjoyed it. The look on his face as he patted her shoulders and fussed over her, so concerned, until she'd hugged him and shooed him away with promises that she was fine. It had made her feel quite ashamed of herself for lying to him, but there was no help for it. She'd avoided him since then, in case he picked up on her unease. 

This was ridiculous. She hadn't even made any calls, yet. She hated to cause any unnecessary ripples in that particular pond, but she ought to at least test the waters, she supposed. Some of those people might not even be alive, anymore, or mobile, or inclined. 

As she reached for her phone, it buzzed, startling her. Her sister, oh, dear--now was not the time for her dull, irritating prattle. You never knew, though; they were the only family that either of them had left, and neither of them were as young as they once were.

Ten minutes later, she was frowning down at her mobile, perplexed. Why was she so easy to get around, where her sister was concerned? She had every sympathy with John and his poor, alcoholic Harriet; her own sister tended to suffer from crippling stupidity and a knack for picking the worst possible times to exercise it, almost as if it were deliberate. She wouldn't be able to use her hands for a least a day, and possibly longer, depending on how bad the burns were; she was in considerable distress from the pain, as well as the worry of having to depend on her dodgy neighbor for help with even the most personal tasks. Really, it was as if it had been meant, just to inconvenience her. 

She supposed she would have to go. Maybe, if things weren't as bad as her sister had painted them, she wouldn't need to stay away longer than overnight. He was a young man and apparently in good health, the blow to the head and subsequent manhandling notwithstanding, and ought to be able to tolerate a few more hours sitting in a chair. It was unlikely that he'd have been very concerned about her welfare, had he managed to abduct her--not from what she knew of him. (Blowing up that poor, elderly, blind woman! He ought to suffer agonies for that, alone.) And if she decided to do away with him, it would all be moot, anyway. 

She nodded to herself--there was one decision made, and it felt good to finally have a course of action in mind. A change of scene might even be just the thing to clear her head and help her think. Maybe this was a lucky turn of events, after all. Well, not for her sister, obviously. 

She unearthed her overnight bag from under the bed and packed it with her night things and a change of clothes, adding a few extra pairs of knickers, just in case--never did to be caught short on knickers. She should let the boys know she'd be away, though she believed they were out, at the moment. Probably for the best; she'd leave them a note. 

Should she check in on Jim, again? She hesitated, considering. It wasn't as if she were frightened of him, the sordid little man, all bound up in his chair as he was. The best he might manage, in his position, would be to tip himself over onto the floor, and that would be amusing, but laughing at him really would be too bad of her. 

No, he just made her...uncomfortable, made her wish very much that none of this had ever happened, and that affected her thinking, she was sure of it. It would be best to leave him alone, and kinder, maybe--he'd become overwrought and nearly choked himself while she was speaking to him, earlier. Best to leave him be and not bother him again until she knew for sure what she meant to do with him. 

She wrote her note, slipped it under the boys' door, gathered her things and, with one last glance around the entry (everything tidy and in its place), stepped outside. By the time she came back she'd be feeling much more resolute, she was sure. It was something to look forward to. 

***

He'd kill her himself, with his own hands. No toys, no help, just the two of them, alone, maybe he'd tape HER to a chair and make her wait for him, the evil old cunt. He'd wait until she was desperate and crying, wasting water, pissing herself, dammit, he didn't care anymore what anyone saw as long as they LET HIM OUT OF THIS FUCKING CHAIR and let him at that bitch. And gave him something to drink, bloody hell, anything, if he could keep it down. His stomach was empty and it was still trying to turn itself inside out, his whole gut was revolting, this ROOM was revolting, HE was revolting and she was going to suffer, it would be slow, he'd make it last WEEKS. 

This wasn't happening. Not to him. Not in Sherlock Holmes' FUCKING BASEMENT, not because of her.

Maybe he'd use knives, too, make little cuts and long furrows that would seep out slowly, run like taps, he could taste it, like wine, smear his face in it, and she's screaming, no use screaming, no one can hear. Tape on his mouth, on her mouth, footsteps above, sometimes, but no one can hear. Just the rats--it should be someplace with rats, big ones, and he'd tape her legs to the chair so she couldn't kick at them, they'd come right up and touch her, she'd feel them at her ankles, overfed city rats the size of small dogs. The gnawing, you can hear them, but they only come out in the dark, harder to scare away, now, harder to move against the tape, muscle spasms twisting him against the tape, losing feeling, nerve damage in his hands, maybe. He could still hold a knife, teach that insane harpy a lesson if someone would just fucking FIND HIM. 

It was getting darker, too soon for night, not another day spent down here, WHERE WERE HIS PEOPLE? The most most brilliant mind of his age, in a filthy basement, with a doddering old imbecile of a whithered WHORE, this is not a fucking GAME. This isn't how it ends. Where is SHERLOCK? It's your fucking basement, do you need a fucking TEXT to see it this time, too? You won't let me die like this, you sorry sack of shit, not in this stinking room, in this motherfucking CHAIR, not because of your fucking LANDLADY, you'll get me out, and then I'll get HER. I'll GET her, and then you, and then EVERY FUCKING RAT IN LONDON, all of them. 

Not like this. Not him. Sherlock. You wouldn't. 

***

"Mrs. Hudson, is that you?" 

Emma dropped her case and her shopping bags on the entry floor and pulled off her jacket. It was good to be home, now that there was nothing unpleasant hanging over her head to upset her comfort. How could there be, after nearly a week? Everything was well out of her hands, now, most likely.

"Yes, love, it's me. Aren't you working, today?" 

John trotted down the stairs toward the landing, dressed to go out and smiling at her. It was so good to see his dear face; her sister had had her tearing at her own hair within 24 hours. 

"Just off out, now. Everything all right? Sister on the mend, I hope?"

"Finally, yes. It was slower going than we'd expected, but she should be fine, now. Almost ready to start knitting, again." Most likely a scarf made up in that awful puce wool for her Christmas gift, unfortunately. Still, family, after all. And her sister did have a lovely DVD collection.

"I'm glad to hear it. Can I carry any of these in for you?" John moved toward her bags; she stopped him with a pat on his arm.

"I'm perfectly able to manage on my own, dear. You get yourself off to work. Tell your lovely Sarah I said hello." 

He grinned at her, again, and stepped around her bags. "Will do. Oh," he said, pausing at the door, "Sherlock's out on a case, has been for days--something to do with embezzlement, up north. But he told me to tell you, before he left, to give him a call if you needed his help with anything?" He raised an eyebrow. "But I'm here, of course, if you do need anything. Is there--"

"No, not at all. He was just being considerate, I'm sure." She suddenly wanted very much for John to leave, but he stood at the door, watching her expectantly and gnawing at his lip as though he were pondering a question. In the next moment, though, his nose twitched, and he looked around the hallway with an offended expression. "Do you smell that?"

Oh, dear. She swallowed. "Drains."

His forehead wrinkled. "Drains?"

She nodded. "Yes, the drains, I expect. They've been backing up into the basement, again. I'll have it seen to, dear, don't worry."

His eyes had gone a bit unfocused as he tentatively sniffed at the air. "It could be, I suppose, but there's also a whiff of...something gone off, or, or dead."

"Ah, that would be a rat in the trap, I imagine." 

"In the trap? In a drain?" John stared at her. 

"Oh, no, I mean, I set a trap in the basement. For the rats. I imagine it's caught one. I'll have that seen to, as well."

John shifted and looked uncomfortable. "If you'd like, I could--I mean, I wouldn't mind, if you..."

She laughed. "Oh, dear, no, there are people to do that. I've a friend or two in the business, I'll just ring them up. Won't cost me a thing."

"Like Sherlock," John offered, and she blinked at him. "I mean, he almost never pays for a meal--people all over the city seem to owe him favors."

"Yes," she said, and bent to pick up her bags. "Very much like that." 

"Well, I'll be off, then. Probably be back quite late, dinner at Sarah's." 

At this point in that relationship, he shouldn't be back for the night, at all, but maybe that's what he meant and just didn't want to say. Nice young men did embarrass so easily. She wouldn't assume he'd be sleeping over, though, just in case. 

She waved him out the front door, then unlocked her own and shouldered her way through it and into her flat, setting her bags down on the coffee table. There were several calls she needed to make before she started putting things away, maybe one or two more than she'd anticipated. It had gotten very hot for the time of year, over the weekend--they'd said so on the news. The clean-up in 221C might be a bit more involved than she'd anticipated. Certainly that carpet would have to go. 

As she picked up her phone, she spared a thought for the man who'd precipitated the need for all this work. She'd read a bit, online, about the effects of dehydration and how long it might take a man to die from it. She'd skimmed past the details about how he might die, what it was like, but she couldn't help but see. Horrible, really. Even Bitsy had had a more peaceful passing, but all Bitsy had done was piddle on the rug, after all. 

Phone in hand, she went into her bedroom and pulled open the drawer in her nightstand, feeling above it for the slim, pocket-sized ledger taped to the underside of the top. Tearing it loose, she picked the tape away from its edges and opened the cover, then began thumbing through it as she sat down on the bed. She must remember to smile as she spoke--people could hear that in the voice, and they did like it.

She wasn't really the heroine in this piece, she supposed, as she tapped at the buttons on her phone. Heroines acted, decisively and firmly--though not always immediately, that was also true. And they did say that not to make a decision was, in itself, a decision, sometimes. What really mattered, she thought, listening to the first number ringing through, was that villains got what they deserved, in the end.

***


End file.
